


my son is tearing down the walls (and there's nothing i can do)

by glitter_demon



Category: the dream smp - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Daddy Issues, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Multiple Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), ao3 is tagging this as RPF but i don't write that; this is their rpsonas :), fantasy au (kinda), fundy is called fox bc fantasy reasons, fundy is mad and honestly i get it, philza is trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitter_demon/pseuds/glitter_demon
Summary: A ghost, a kitsune, and an angel walk into a potion brewery. Almost a joke, isn't it?orFox never intended to speak to Wilbur after his death, but an attempt at justice must be made; even if the results are as disappointing as he'd predicted.
Kudos: 38





	my son is tearing down the walls (and there's nothing i can do)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is loosely based off of the conversation fundy and ghostbur had while philza was just like o-o in the background; some of the dialogue is from there, some of it isn't. my point is, i'm emo about sleepy bois inc. and fundy is basically one of them so qwq

“Hello!”

It’s strange to hear his voice again, honestly. It’s different in death—or, undeath, actually—just… calmer. Flatter, almost, like whatever made him a person has been suppressed beneath this façade of peace. He hadn’t missed him, not really, not when he learned that person who had destroyed his home—the person who laughed amongst the ashes, the person with fire in those terrifying eyes, the person who dared call himself his _father_ —was finally gone.

But of course he isn’t dead for real. That would be too fucking easy, wouldn’t it?

He takes a deep breath, not bothering to keep the anger from his voice. “Wil.”

“Yeah?”

Wilbur smiles, playing at innocence, but Fox can see the falter in his expression.

“We need to talk.”

He sighs, the empty smile falling. “Whenever people say that to me, they tell me sad things, and I forget them—” His gaze flicks over his shoulder to the fizzing jars of gods-know-what, his shimmering form seeming to waver, a bit more translucent by the minute. His eyes light up when he sees one is boiling, more naïve joy on his face than Fox had ever, _ever_ seen while he had been alive. “Oh, my potions are done!”

It’s too much, really. He wants to shove the anger down, control it, be anything but the man his so-called _father_ had been, but it’s fire in his veins and smoke in his head. It’s righteous anger he tells himself, justified, nothing like the senseless violence of that day, but he still tastes acid in his mouth when he speaks. Not out of guilt—he feels no sympathy for this wretched excuse of a man, he’s so, _so_ scared of becoming him. And that’s why it feels so scary (but so cathartic, and that might scare him more), when he snaps, “Wil! _Listen_ to me!”

Wilbur doesn’t even deign to look back at him when he mumbles, “...I am, I am.”

“Do you know what’s wrong? Do you? Do you ever even register what I’m saying? Wil, listen, _look at me_.”

He mumbles something, indistinct as ever. Fox can’t decide which is worse, this echo of a person before him, or the maniac that destroyed everything that everyone had worked so hard to create. That had… that had _asked_ to die, the coward. He ran away from it all. From his gods-damned “unfinished symphony”.

He’s aware of Philza standing in the corner, suddenly. A family gathering, Fox thinks, laughing bitterly to himself. 

He had known he was there, of course, but the fact that he killed his son—that he helped him get out of the consequences, really, still sends another pang of betrayal through his heart. He had never been as close with his grandfather as he had with Wilbur, but in the time after the lunatic’s death he had come to learn Philza was actually… good, just as the wings implied, when Fox had seen them, radiant even amongst the ruins of the kingdom.

Not that his kindness excused the fact that he had allowed Wilbur to escape, but Fox understands that the angel had just done what the people wanted.

Fox isn’t so sure he would’ve left his “father” alive if Philza hadn’t killed him anyway.

He shakes his head, more to himself than anyone, the thought sending a renewed wave of fervor through him. “ _Wil._ ”

Wilbur doesn’t respond, feigning ignorance as he continues working on his precious potions.

Fox wishes he could grab him by the collar and force Wilbur to face him, but alas, the man is super fucking dead. So instead he yanks one of the vials from the brewing stand and slams it, hard, against the counter, shaking with grief and ire and raw _hatred_ . “Stop. Every single time something serious comes up, you evade it. You just avoid _everything._ You run away from any serious consequences from your actions—you just walk away! You just smile through everything! You think everything is fine, it’s _not_!” 

The ghost stares at him, a pathetic approximation of remorse on his face.

Tears pool in Fox’s eyes, scalding and furious. “You were there for me for a very long time. And when I needed you the most, you ran the fuck away. You died—you _asked for it_ . Because of what? L’manberg? Its causes? Huh? You thought that was justice, you thought that was _good_ for us? You _left_ me.”

The asshole doesn’t know what to say, apparently, never _does_ , so he turns away again, his voice quiet as it is shaky. “Oh look, the next ingredient’s on the way—”

Fox shakes his head. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. For someone who does so much changing, Wilbur is certainly predictable.

He sighs. “Son, I don’t—I-I don’t remember doing any of those things, I just…”

“Lemme tell you something, Wil, lemme tell you something. You know what happened? After all of your memories, after all of your _happy_ fucking memories of our supposed last talk? Because that wasn’t our last talk.”

Wilbur freezes. It’s almost imperceptible, his wavering spirit just a flicker in the torchlight. “I-I didn’t—if I didn’t remember it, it probably wasn’t worth remembering.”

“It wasn’t worth—” Fox laughs, quietly, humorlessly. How much does Wilbur forget, really? That book of his is so short, only the happy memories remaining… but he brought the misery upon himself. He remembers raising his “son”, but just the happy parts. He just remembers the smiles, when Fox was little, the sunshine before Sally left, the games, when Fox was first beginning his playful, good-spirited pranks. Not when Fox tore down the walls at Schlatt’s command, not when he burned the flag to shreds, not when he hunted Dream while Wilbur was his precious “vassal”. 

How convenient for him. 

But the disparity between the memories makes Fox’s voice weaker than he intends as he says, “You don’t mean that.”

“C’mon, let’s go fishing, let’s go fishing. Fishing is fun, or—want some potions?” Wilbur barely seems to register that Fox said anything, floating towards the door. “That’s—that’s how L’manberg started, right?” 

There’s a pause. Fox just stares at him in resignation. 

“Son, I, um… we sold them from a van. With our friends, remember?”

Unwanted memories of Tommy and Wilbur starting their so-called “empire” from that van surface in Fox’s mind. It was dangerous, yeah, but it was still so low-stakes then. Just a few people starting a revolution, all jokes and teasing and naive hope that they could change something. Anything.

That van is restored now, somewhere in L’manberg. Tubbo rebuilt it, he thinks, but there’s no way in hell he’ll ever go back to see it. 

“...I remember.”

Wilbur downs a potion, and his ghastly form disappears even as his voice remains. “Look, I’d love to chat, but I have to go. I’m sure there’s plenty of horrible things I’ve done you’d love to tell me about, but I’ve gotta go, I’ve got a meeting, with, with, um, with… um, Tubbo.”

Fox crosses his arms. “Wil, do you remember who started L’manberg?”

The door stops as it’s half-open. Wilbur’s voice is happier than it’s ever been the entire conversation, as he says, “Yeah! Yeah, it was, uh, it was me, and Tommy, and Tubbo, and Niki, she was kind of a founder, and… Eret. But we don’t like Eret anymore.”

“What did she do, Wil? Do you even know? Or are you just regurgitating whatever shit Tommy told you?”

“I…” The door creaks closed just a little further. “Eret betrayed us, what was the thing, what did he say…”

Fox takes a step towards the door. “You said it too, right before you blew the whole kingdom up. ‘It was never meant to be’, you said.”

Philza clears his throat quietly, his wings ruffling.

The door closes. “I—I did what?”

“Listen, Wil, it doesn’t fucking matter, you’ll just make yourself forget it anyway. You’re far worse than Eret _ever_ was, and they’re going to be a better parent than you _ever_ were.”

“Oh. She’s… oh.”

Fox opens the door and slams it behind him, walking quickly down the hallway that leads outside. He passes through a patch of cold, and he knows Wilbur stopped, to think, to process, to do something with the fact that yes, he _did_ orphan his “son”, and yes, one of his enemies is adopting him. Good. Let him regret. Let him feel the same pain that Fox did.

“Goodbye, son.”

Fox sighs and keeps walking.

After all, he’s got a new home to build.


End file.
